


The State of his Bookshelf

by action_cat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Fights, Help, M/M, Sad, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock took drastic measures while John left, and now John has to clean up his mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The State of his Bookshelf

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry, I know I'm quite terrible at this. But carry on, I'll try to write something good next time. Sorry, but my randma just died and I'm doing the best I can.
> 
> If you are uncomfortable with cutting or suicide, it's okay to go back. If you are cutting or suicidal, I love you, and I will try to make you day. 
> 
> Thank you.

_Death does not scare me._ _I am not afraid of one dying or being dead. I am_ _afraid of one being lost from me._ Sherlock wrote, in looping letters upon a notepad. He paused, his dark curls glinting in the lamp's warm light.  _Of course, some say that when one dies we loose them. And in a way we do. But my point is that I am not_ _afraid of Death. I should welcome him with open arms when my time comes. But until then, well, until I see Death, I will let him know that I am not afraid._

Sherlock set the notepad down on the nightstand, leaning against the headboard. He sighed, closing his eyes and put his hands on his head. The lamplight gleaned brightly through his eyelids, themselves a lavender shade due to his lack of sunlight. Sherlock opened his eyes, exhaling sharply. He sat up, and turned off the light. Suddenly, the roomed was drenched in darkness. As his eyes adjusted, blues and grays shined out, a portrait of sorrow and depression. His room was a mess. Clothes gathered into mountains, papers were flung in every which way. The very state of his bookshelf was horrid, pages being ripped out and covers defaced.

In a way, the room was a reflection of his life at this moment.

It was a sad, lonely, and depressed man that sat cross-legged on his bed, sheets rumpled, eyes wild. His face was filthy, his hair a ragged mess. Sherlock walked over to the window, oblivious to the mess. He leaned on the windowsill, leaning out hopefully out into the London streets. London was dark and deadly now. Car horns went off, broken glass shattered a few miles away, and somewhere a man screamed. Sherlock retreated, after gazing to the front of Baker Street, trying to find something. His eyes, previously filled with wonder and expectation, had dulled, the light blues now a dingy, muted color. Yet still, he stood at the windowsill, closing his eyes as the dark blue above the buildings spread, colors dimming, lights subdued. 

And it was at that moment of quiet that the door had opened, ushering in new light into Sherlock's bedroom. He opened his eyes.

"Sherlock, put some clothes on." Someone, small by their footsteps walked over to Sherlock and put his bathrobe next to him. Sherlock swung it on, still looking outside, covering his bare arse. The man sighed, grabbing his hand and trying to lead him out of his bedroom. Sherlock obliged, shuffling on the carpet. He tied the cloth around his waist, ushered to the bathroom. 

"Take a shower, you smell. Go on, wash for hair, and don't even think of trying anything, I've got your blade and iodine. I'll be waiting outside." The man walked Sherlock inside, shut the door carefully, and scraped a chair over to the door, the chair squeaking as he sat down. Sherlock shrugged off the bathrobe, and turned on the water, walking into the stall and closing the glass before it warmed. It was cold and harsh, but it woke him up. He gasped, his eyes widening and his curly hair flattened as water trickled down his chest. Sherlock turned his arms over, looking at the thin, raised scars that dominated his fragile skin. They were scary, as is he had been gone so far as to resort to that again. 

The water slowly began to warm. Sherlock began to scrub his head, bubbles pooling as a result of the shampoo, pooling on the floor. He hummed a melody to himself, rubbing his arms with soap. Eventually, the shower was filled with steam and bubbles. The bathroom door opened and in came John. It was too steamily to see anything worth seeing, but John still turned away.

"Blimey, Sherlock. I didn't think you'd be able to get inside the stall." He slid down the wall, resting comfortably across from the sink. Sherlock muttered something. "What?" John looked over at the shower stall, steam still rising as the water got hotter. Sherlock scoffed.

"Well it was your fault, you were the one who told me to wash my hair." He turned the knobs down a bit, them squeaking a bit. The noise went down considerably, and John tossed a towel over to Sherlock. He walked out, bubbles still on his head. Thankfully a towel was wrapped around his waist, and as he sat next to John, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that he was a bit wary. Sherlock grimaced, and leaned his head against the wall. John tightened his lips.

"D'you know how close you got?" Johns' voice had carefully controlled anger, but it was still deadly. He looked straight at Sherlock, fury burning in his eyes. 

"I know that I'm not dead." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes.

"Do you know how close you were, to being dead?" John's voice was barely above a whisper, but it was the scariest tone Sherlock had ever heard come out of his mouth.

"No, I don't. Maybe I don't want to know." Sherlock turned away, curling up on the floor, fetal position. John clenched his jaw. He leaned over to Sherlock and peered right into his face, his eyes furious.

"Well you get to." John pulled him up, and dragged him to his bedroom, Sherlock protesting loudly. But they were falling on deaf ears, because when John sat him on the bed and looked into Sherlock's bright, blue eyes, fear was struck. There was anger and pain in those eyes, sorrow and sadness drifting. And Sherlock Holmes knew that at that moment, that the attempts had to stop. John took a deep breath.

"You were dead. Sherlock, you were dead when we found you, and it was only pure luck that there was an ambulance outside. Three long gashes on your right arm, and you were gone." His voice cracked, Sherlock staring wonderingly at John. "There was blood everywhere. You were dead for five minutes, and then by some grace of God, here you are now, alive." Sherlock was in shock. He always thought that Death would welcome him, open arms as he would, but he was alive. John continued.

"In the hospital, for six days. You don't remember that? Mrs. Hudson is still crying, and Molly hasn't been to St. Bart's since." John's words whipped across Sherlock, their consequences biting into him like rabid animals. "You thought that after you died, no one would cry. You would be free, and would never have to deal with that again. But Sherlock, no matter how many times you die, you will always come back. I will make that happen, no matter what, because you cannot die on me now." His voice cracked. "And I will never let that happen again.

Sherlock scooted across the bed, blinking in the darkness. His hair was still wet, and his arms were cold. John looked at him, eyes red and furious, messily wiping a hand across his face. He  held up a razor blade. 

"Never do this again. Please, there are people who care about you."

"There are reasons. And this isn't new, it's an art. I've never tried to kill myself. It takes away the reality, it lets me know I'm still human. And John, you've never gone so low that hurting yourself was the only way to make yourself feel better."

John looked maddeningly at Sherlock. "You think?" He rolled up his sleeves. Numerous cuts, deep, shallow, white and raised were patterned across his forearm. He glared at Sherlock. "You've never had my experiences. I've killed people, Sherlock! I've been hurt and cut and beaten up so many times that I can't remember which ones came first. Don't you ever say that I've never felt that. You, Sherlock Holmes, are an arrogant asshole and it's high time that you learn that people can care for sociopaths."

And then at that moment, tears formed and when that happens, people are comforted, if they are lucky. And even though Sherlock didn't believe himself so, he was. John climbed on the bed, and as Sherlock quietly wept, he held him and comforted him. Sherlock looked up, sighing.

"I'll try not to. But hide them well, John, because if I ever have the misfortune to look for them, you better make sure I won't find them. Ever." John smiled slightly, hoping that the amazing man next to him wouldn't fall victim to the razor blade on a cold tile floor. He handed Sherlock the bathrobe, and as the clock struck twelve, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, finally, fell asleep in the same room, together. 

 

 

Flickering street lamps on the corners of blocks helped hide the boy. He was fourteen, and alone in London. Dark hair, green eyes, and a look that could have told anyone that upon meeting the boy that you would never forget him. And just barely visible, was a package beneath his woolen trench coat. The boy ran upon the cobblestones, his heels clicking in the empty alleys. His hat flew off, but he didn't go back to get it. The boy ran along to Baker Street, and stopped shudderingly, staring at the doors. He took a key out of his pocket, and opened the darkly painted doors. Inside he flew, like a blackbird. Up the stairs, and sitting down comfortably down by the door, with a large B on it. The boy smiled, and clutched his package, waiting for the sun to arrive, waiting to see the look upon Sherlock's face when he realizes that he isn't dead, and that more nightmares just appeared. The boy smiled, and the package shivered.

 

Goodbye.

 


End file.
